


The Reality of Honesty

by intresszero



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:16:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intresszero/pseuds/intresszero
Summary: Brutally honest with my own mediocrity.





	The Reality of Honesty

Honesty. Pure and unfettered honesty. Most people think it’s just saying what’s on your mind, but there’s so much more to it than that. It’s facing the uncomfortable realizations of your own inadequacy. It’s realizing that not all of your self-depreciating rhetoric are over-exaggerations. It’s coming to terms with your weaknesses, flaws, and failed expectations. It’s brutal. It’s painful. Most importantly? It’s necessary.

I like writing. In many ways it functions as an escape. Words fill the screen with a layer of distance; the narrator is me, but not me. A representation of darker thoughts phrased to the extreme. Manifestations of my inner dialogues, but separate and unattached from me. It makes feeling and accepting the macabre frivolity easier, but I’ve realized that I rarely internalize it. Acceptance and internalizing improvement are not the same thing even though we may treat them as such.

I pride myself on self-awareness. I spend a great deal of time researching issues relevant to my situation. I try to consume any information that will shed light on why I spend so much time in metal agony. How self-aware am I, really, if my takeaway is to fall into the same defeatist patterns? I’d like to think, all things considered, that I do fairly well and that my efforts are tangible. I’m often told as much. I submit a rebuttal: does my effort really speak to progress, if I’m still constrained by my own thought-failures?

Here’s a flaw: I am rather pretentious at times. Is it because I just am? Is it because of some disorder, or combination of disorders, that I tend to emphasize my words and mannerisms? Is for attention? Or am I just “that way”? At this point, the answer pales in the face of the actual aforementioned realization and I think it’s important for me to ruminate on that fact. That is, in fact, the reason for this whole experiment.

This was originally going to be another introspection piece wherein I wax ‘poetic’ about my thought processes. Gilded language and trite expressions to showcase my tortured faculties. Progress was slow and I realized why: I was not in the headspace to even begin to write what I wanted. See, the rub is, I had to be depressed and overcome by trite maudlin angst. It is profoundly sickening to realize that. What kind of “writing” do if that’s my ‘muse’? I am still disgusting thinking about, but I’ve come to accept it. It should come as no surprise, then, that I am writing this in direct response to both that fact and my own emotional failings.

I decided that this piece was what I needed to write and not what I wanted to write. This piece would be unadulterated honesty. I would rip apart my own arrogance and my own notions. I would defy my instincts and bare my thoughts. I would be honest with myself in ways I never considered possible. I’ve always tried to maintain honesty and self-awareness, but this time it’s going to be raw.

So, what thoughts are we going to bare? What thoughts are worth the trouble to be emotionally honesty? Ultimately, who am I writing this for? Well, that last question is easy: me. I’m writing this for me. It has to be for me. I do myself a disservice if I write this for anyone else. It can serve as a tool for others, but ultimately this has to be for me. I’m going to talk about everything here. Everything I’m scared to admit out loud. Well, everything that I can remember to write down. I don’t yet know if I will edit this with more information when it is “finished”.

So, let’s get started. A disclaimer first: what I will say will be contradictory and exaggerated, because that’s simply the person I am.

Here are a list words I’d use to describe myself that a litany of people would argue:

Weak  
Trite  
Disgusting  
Burdensome

The fun of this exercise is that I get to have my cake and eat it too, so to speak. These qualities, whether you want to argue or not, bear some degree of truth. 

I AM weak. I am weak because I allow myself to fall into the same constrained myopic wallowing self-pity. I’m not weak because I’m mentally ill. I’m weak because there exists a realm of thought that compliments the self-disparaging lies my brain tells. It’s a space where I retreat within and listen to all the self-serving bullshit to excuse my own inaction and regression. A space where I make statements that would irritate anyone who calls themselves my friend.

“Lack of interaction is a symptom of your extraneous position in people’s lives.”  
“You will be forgotten. It’s inevitable. You are a stepping stone, a means to an end.”  
“No matter how much you work, you’ll never matter as much as other people.”  
“Give up everything to prove your worth. Are you even a good friend if you’re not emotionally taxed and inwardly crying?”  
“They don’t have time for you. They don’t need you.”

I tire myself out hearing it in my head; I couldn’t imagine how grating it would be to be on the receiving end. These statements are born out of compounded anxiety and loathing from multiple sources. The weakness is, I completely believe them. I believe them so much that even when things are going well, I will react as if these statements are factual. Internally, somewhere, I know they’re not true. That knowledge rarely matters in the face of overwhelming negativity. 

I AM trite. Bromide by all definitions. Paradoxically, I have a contradictory dichotomy regarding this perception of myself. I’ve refrained from directly speaking on it. I view myself as superior and inferior, to differing lengths, in relation to different people. With one group I will feel unequivocally superior, and voice that when people remind me they’ve forgotten their place. In other groups, I’m a speck of chipped glass among diamonds. Fragile and broken and obscured by the radiance around me. Hell, sometimes I’m a golden Goddess compared to the rank and file next to me, but a lower-class waif next to The One. 

Disgusting is a qualifier that, perhaps, would meet the most debate. No one would view me as disgusting I don’t think. I switch between wholly disgusting and pristine divinity, sometimes within minutes. Even I have trouble making an argument for this that isn’t rooted in corrupted self-loathing. What is disgusting, however, is my incessant whining. It disgusts me on a level I never thought possible. I can’t even comprehend it. Is it for attention? Am I lonely? Am I just manipulative? I truly do not know, but I’m sure the answer would repulse me further.

This connection, I admit, is tenuous at best. I often feel like my needs, desires, and requests place too high a strain on those around me. My ability to keep contact with people only serves to exacerbate it. I neglect to communicate with practically everyone. Partially, because I’m a whiny self-serving child. “If people wanted your company, they would obviously seek it. If you keep putting in this effort, you’re going to drive people away. You’re not needed nor wanted.” Sad. Pathetic. My relationships suffer because of my inability to remove my head from my own ass.

I could continue ad nauseum, but that would only serve to make this redundant. Why recursively repeat the rhetoric that got me here? Of course, I’m not without positive insight. I see value in myself. I see the friendships that I’ve worked to cultivate. I see the efforts and growth I’ve made. I’ve made strides in the past year, but this is something I’ve carried my entire life. I don’t know how to escape this pit. The constant reduction to pathetic caterwauling aside, the truly horrific aspect of all of this is the ideation.

Every day is a fantasy. Every day is a dream. A nightmare. My nights are dreamless and there is no proof come morn, but every day I live through feels like a horrific delusion. I scarcely recall the events of the day prior, but every conscious moment is Hell. Every reprieve scrutinized. Some days are apathetic and devoid of emotion and the capability to feel. Some days are filled a litany of intense erupting emotions fluctuating between each other endlessly. Still others are filled with emotions I can’t identify, only able to parse vague approximations of which are acceptable and which are painful.

I considered taking this space to speak on my “disorders”. I use quotations because I’ve made a personal commitment to not view nor treat them as disorders. Viewing them under that lens is a small step to pathologizing myself more than is necessary or healthy for me. The subject, I think, is a bit out of the scope of this assignment. I think writing on them in my usual way is more efficacious. I will, however, will say that they often leave me with intense feelings of fraudulence. Imposter Syndrome. Critiquing every symptom and behavior, analyzing every reaction, dissecting every interaction. If ever I feel “normal” or “good” then I must be faking. If I’m not at my lowest at every point in time, how can I say I have something debilitating? What constitutes validity and legitimacy? Am I real? Is this pain “real”? It’s tangible—I can feel that—but is from this supposed disability, or am I so overcome by a desire to be relevant that I’ve co-opted everything?

What scares me more than that, is having my entire identity examined under that lens too. Is anything about me real? Did I inadvertently make myself a pale imitation of others? Where is the proof that I’m genuine? How can I believe that proof? Am I who I say I am? Will I wake up one day with the urge to regress into the person I was, because I was never “this”?

I’ve said all this, but what does it serve in praxis? What does the future hold now that I’ve written this? Is this enough to internalize and reach the next evolutionary step? Is this the catalyst I need? Those are questions I cannot yet answer. What I do know, however, is that it’s out there. It’s a veil I cannot hide behind. Even if others file the information away for later, I’ll always know that it’s accessible. I have no avenues for cowardice anymore.

I am not special. I am not remarkable. I am not great. I am not even memorable. Any individual skill I possess, what little I do, at least five others I directly know can and have done it better. Most importantly? It is okay. No matter what delusions of grandeur take hold, I need to remember. I’m average. I’m mediocre. I need to grow. I need to change. I have a niche I fit, and I have to keep searching for it. I’ve spent too long trying to exist on the approval of others. That has to end and it will. I’m determined.


End file.
